


Dead Moth Tango

by Brink (PaperLillyWebs)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, 10 Things, AU, Artistic Liberties Taken, Guns are repeatedly returned in pieces, Kidnapping, Lots of Artistic Liberties Taken, M/M, Moths, Non-Graphic Violence, Piano, Post-Skyfall, Pre-Skyfall, Q's Name, Skyfall Lodge - Freeform, Spectre isn't a thing because I haven't watched it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperLillyWebs/pseuds/Brink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In a rare moment of sincerity, Bond responds, “That information is privy only to you.”</i>
</p><p>Or: In which sometimes 007 is just James Bond, and Q is just Sherrinford Mawdsley. And sometimes there are feelings involved where they shouldn't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Moth Tango

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Peony15 (sadbaby)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadbaby/gifts).



> A huge, huge, huge thanks to the artist Peony (peony15 on tumblr) for their amazing artwork! I'm glad I was able to work the moth in as much I did, but I'm very very sorry for how long this took; I ended up rewriting it twice. Also a big thank you to the mods for hosting this event, and for being the kick in my ass to actually write for this ship.
> 
>  _Dead Moth Tango_ is a piano piece by William Bolcom that I was lucky enough to find, since I had originally planned to make up a song. It was god-send how well it fit.
> 
> NOTE: I did not have a beta editor for this; any mistakes are thanks to lack of sleep and having to write in between classes.

 

x.

The lodge creaks with an age James had never learned to understand, winter winds burrowing into the cracks in the wood like it belongs there. Cold seeps up from the marshes below the house, winding in twisting ivies around the foundation and into the floors. Despite the orange glow of the electric lights, and the fire roaring in the corner, it always feels as if snow is seconds away from gusting in.

   The windowpanes do little to keep out the chill of the rapid snowfall, but James’ fingers are warm where they rest on the ivory keys of his parents’ grand piano. He’s always hated the bloody thing, hated the lessons his mother had insisted on since he was a child. Not necessarily because he didn’t _like_ piano — he’s actually quite fond of classical music — but because despite almost six years of lessons, it’s the one thing he just. can’t. _do_.

   He tells the piano as much as he jams at the keys perhaps a little too hard, glaring at the yellowed sheet music as if it had done him a great personal wrong. The corner curls over the last few notes in the bar, simply as if to mock him.

   The song isn’t even that difficult, hardly the worst he’s ever had to learn, but something about _Dead Moth Tango_ has him tugging at his bangs like a harried mother. Like his mother. Who thought that this song would be the perfect sweet sixteen birthday gift.

   James is barely halfway down the page when he gives up, stabbing the last key with force enough to make the piano protest.

   A muffled giggle sounds from behind James, pulling him out of his descent into madness. He turns on the bench to see a child in the doorway to the drawing room, a boy that can’t be more than six, with his hands over his mouth as if he had surprised himself with his own laugh.

   He’s a scruffy little thing, all sharp angles and scraggly hair that almost reaches his shoulders. Whoever dressed him must hate children, judging from the trousers and kiddie-sized suspenders, and the truly atrocious mustard-yellow sweater he’s sporting.

   James raises an eyebrow at him, but it only makes the child giggle again. “Oh, you can do better, can you?” James demands, and maybe he’s smiling. A little.

   The boy drops his hands, cheeks rosy from the chill of the room, and shakes his head. And, for the record, James doesn’t like children, not in the least, but this boy is wiggling his fingers where they’re at his sides, almost like he’s got them on piano keys.

  “C’mere and prove it, then.”

   It’s said on a whim, but the boy brightens as he scrambles into the room and towards the bench. He can’t quite get up on his own, so with a huffed laugh, James carefully scoops him up and deposits him on the bench next to him; the poor thing can hardly reach the keys, and certainly can’t reach the pedals.

   That doesn’t stop him from immediately starting to tinker out some semblance of a piece, and though his form is actually quite excellent, he misses notes enough that it takes James twice through to realise he’s trying to play _Twinkle Twinkle_.

   James barks out a laugh, but quickly stifles it when the boy turns a puffed-cheek pout at him. “Sorry, sorry. You just missed a few...” James has never been one for tact — a fact his mother is constantly reminding him of — and this boy knows it, crossing his little arms over his chest and glaring. James smiles again despite himself. “What do I call you?”

   The question seems to surprise him, and it takes a couple of breathless attempts (James starts to suspect he has asthma), but the boy finally gets out, “Sherrinford.”

   James raises an eyebrow. “Does your mother hate you?”

   To his surprise, the boy just smiles and swings his feet. “Probably.”

   “Well,” he coughs. “I’m James. You’ve got great form, but you’re missing some... Would you mind if I showed you?”

   Sherrinford nods vigorously and puts his hands back on the keys, looking at James attentively. No one looks at James like that, the rebellious teenager who sneaks out the priest hole to smoke in the middle of the night, who doesn’t pay attention in class, who is the reason for his mother’s greying hair. This boy looks at him like he’s Bach, he’s Mozart. James may relish in the feeling.

 

It doesn’t even cross James’ mind that his boy is the son of one of the fancy guests his mother has over that evening; he forgets his mother is even hosting a party, far too amused by Sherrinford’s growing irritation with his stubby fingers.

   Despite his skill and grasp of technique, Sherrinford’s fingers are just too small to efficiently reach all of the keys.

   So focussed as they are, neither boy notices the woman standing in the doorway until she gives a soft, “Oh, there you are.”

   James gives a small jerk of surprise and looks up at the woman, a slight figure with a hard set to her lips. She’s beautiful, James decides, in the way that a shark is as it circles beneath you.

   Sherrinford looks up at the woman, disappointed, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess their relation.

   James gets to his feet respectfully, nodding his head. The woman looks down her nose at him a bit, but nods in return.

   “Monique mentioned you were practicing. James, was it?”

   “Yes, ma’am.”

   “Katherine Olivia Mawdsley.”

   “My mother has mentioned you,” James acknowledges politely, as he shakes her offered hand.

   With a stiff nod, she beckons to Sherrinford. “We’re leaving now.”

   James decides that she is certainly the kind of woman to name their child Sherrinford, watching as the boy hops carefully off the stool to join his mother by the door. Katherine leaves the room, but Sherrinford pauses just long enough to wave shyly to James.

  James waves back.

 

ix.

Nine years later finds James coming back to Skyfall for the first time since joining MI6, entirely at M’s insistence. Knowing there was no way to actually force him to go without being there herself, she had done just that, under claims that James only needed to go to be her “bodyguard”. The nerve.

   Luckily, Kincaid sweeps him up almost as soon as they’re through the door, saving him the trouble of skirting around his parents’ questions. M claimed it wasn’t too hard to stick to a cover story, but he doubts she’s ever had to keep something from her parents.

   Kincaid keeps him busy on the moors, testing his marksmanship until well after dinner is under way, the sky dark when they finally return to the lodge. Kincaid bids him goodnight as James shucks off his jacket, taking their rifles back to the gun cabinet.

   He enters the dining room with no intent of staying, planting a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek in an attempt to escape unnoticed.

   “Ah, James,” she says with a smile, quickly putting a hand on his arm as she turns away from her guests. “Would you mind showing Sherrinford the library? I was just telling Olive about it.”

   James raises an eyebrow at the teen his mother had gestured to, and it’s difficult to compare him to the child he had met before.

   He’s taller now, quickly catching up to James, though his hair is still in a rather poor state of disarray. His cheeks are no longer rosy, instead pallid and gaunt, but he meets James’ eye in a way no one has since he joined the secret service.

   James glances to M for permission. She simply nods, sipping primly at her glass of wine.

   “Of course,” James answers, offering a short smile to Sherrinford, who is looking bitterly at his mother.

   Ignoring him, James leads him up to the second floor. He shoulders open the library door and lets Sherrinford squeeze past him. “You’re welcome to anything,” James says. “just make sure you put it all back where you got it.”

   Sherrinford doesn’t answer for a moment, fingertips skimming across a row of novels. He pulls one gently from the shelf, black with a gold moth embossed on the spine. “Thank you,” he says, not looking at James. With a snort, James leaves him be.

 

James passes the evening sipping a scotch with his mother’s friends. He doesn’t participate in the conversations, strictly observing. M looks at ease, but still sharp; she always had been, but James remembers her having the grace of a mother. Now, she keeps herself reserved, expertly steering the conversation away from her work, and James has to admire her. When you’re the head of a secret organisation, seeing old friends has to be difficult; James’ mother, a woman worth her salt, doesn’t question M’s reservation.

   There are others there, others he cares little about, names he didn’t pay attention to ( _Aubrey and Hank Dover, Helena Carter, Joseph and Elizabeth Malcolm_ ), but it wouldn’t do a secret agent well to ignore their presence. Judging by the looks M keeps sending across the sitting room, James almost expects her to give him a quiz once they return to headquarters.

   He drains his glass and gets to his feet, deciding that perhaps a beer with Kincaid would be a nice way to finish out the evening. His mother looks up and smiles at him; he simply nods in return.

   He’s at the door when M stops him with a, “James.” He looks back to her expectantly, and she takes a long sip of wine just to see him twitch. “Would you mind fetching Sherrinford for me?”

   “Are we leaving, ma’am?”

   She ignores him and turns back to his mother, continuing the conversation as if there had been no interruption. James doesn’t know what he expected, smirking to himself as he ducks out of the room.

   He takes the stairs slowly, running his hand over the polished banister. It had been a while since he’d been home, and though Skyfall never did feel like _home_ to him, it was still nice to be back in the lodge again. Living in the bustling city of London, he hadn’t even realised how much he missed the crisp Scottish air, the heady, woody scent of the lodge.

   The floorboards hardly creak under his light footsteps, and the thought is jarring; when he was a child, he could barely get a glass of water in the middle of the night without waking at least the dogs. Objectively, he knows he passed the stealth physical with flying colours, but he hasn’t yet been on a mission to test that stealth; it’s almost disconcerting walking through the lodge so silently.

   He raps his knuckles on the library door, but doesn’t wait for an answer before entering. The words fail on his lips as he realises that the library is, in fact, empty. No book is out of place, though there is a mug half-full of cooling tea abandoned on one of the side tables.

   James is just resigning himself to having to search the whole house for the boy when he hears it, the sound of their old grand piano. He almost chalks it up to his imagination, or the radio his mother has playing downstairs, but then he hears someone swear softly before restarting the piece over.

   Intrigued, James wanders down the hall to the drawing room where they’d stashed the piano when James had stopped playing it. The door is ajar, just enough for James to see Sherrinford’s back, where he’s bent slightly over the keys and muttering to himself.

   “...wasn’t kidding,” he is saying to himself, seemingly trying to decipher the sheet music propped against the stand. He runs a hand through his hair, only furthering its dishevelment, and starts tapping at the keys again.

   It’s not _Twinkle Twinkle_ at the very least, James thinks, raising a hand to knock.

   But then Sherrinford gets nearly a whole bar out, and it halts James in his tracks. It had been years since he’d tried to play that piece, that bloody piece that made him quit piano in the first place; surely Sherrinford couldn’t possibly remember it? He’d been a child, little more than a babe.

   And how he’d found the sheet music is another matter entirely, considering James didn’t even know his parents kept any of it.

   Sherrinford continues to mutter to himself, despite having gotten the song down pretty well. “...song is the worst...” James can’t quite make out what he says next, but he ends with, “S’the worst bloody song I’ve ever had to play.” He jabs at the final note with more than a tad bit of disgust, the piano protesting to the harsh treatment.

   James smiles despite himself, though quickly masters his expression back to blank indifference and knocks.

 

viii.

This twig of a bloke sits next to him and Bond cannot for the life of him think of a reason a man possibly two decades his junior would want to talk to him, about a bloody painting of all things. It doesn’t help that he talks to Bond as if he knows him, leaving Bond floundering for familiarity that isn’t there.

   “A bloody big ship. Excuse me.” Bond starts to stand, going over the meeting place in his head again just to be sure he’s found the right painting.

   “007. I’m your new Quartermaster.”

   He slowly sits back down, wondering if Tanner is playing some sick joke on him. “You must be joking.” Bond can hardly believe he’s letting a _child_ kit him out for one of the biggest information leaks in British history. A child that actually does look a bit familiar, a thought at the back of Bond’s mind suggesting this new Q was perhaps one of Boothroyd’s bright little hopefuls in years past; it feels odd knowing nothing of his quartermaster when he’d known Boothroyd for so long.

   But he accepts the ticket without complaint, eyeing the neat, handwritten notation on the envelope.

   And bugger it all, the PPK is _gorgeous,_  absolutely bloody gorgeous, and Q knows it, smiling smugly next to him. Bond takes it out carefully, keeping an eye on the other patrons of the museum, and relishes in the feel of the grip on his palm. He turns it over twice before he notices the small etching below the usual Q branch branding on the bottom of the hilt. Looking closer, Bond sees it to be a moth, tiny, but incredibly intricate.

   “A personal touch,” Q answers his silent question, the side of his mouth ticking up as his left hand twitches on his thigh. “I’ve liked them ever since I was little.”

   Bond rubs the pad of his thumb over it, and is distantly reminded of the old grand piano he hasn’t played in years. How odd.

 

It had been a while since Bond interacted with any of the Q-branch minions, and even longer since he last managed to get Boothroyd to pull his hair out. ‘Shame, that.

   Bond pushes into the new Q-branch, carrying Silva’s laptop, and the small box he had been originally kitted out with. Minions are scurrying about with different pieces of tech, and give him a wide berth as he makes his way towards the desks in the middle of the room; one poor technician is carrying a pistol at arm’s-length like it will explode at any moment. Knowing Q-branch, Bond actually wouldn’t be surprised.

   With a smirk, Bond approaches Q and sets the box containing the remains of his PPK right next to his hand. Q slowly stops typing and looks down at the box in question, an eyebrow raising.

   “You brought back your equipment,” he says with a tone of surprise, and Bond feels as if he should be offended. Q slowly opens the box and his shoulders drop into a sigh at the sight of the gun. “I should have guessed; M warned me of your penchant for... this.” He gingerly lifts the hilt and inspects it, the barrel completely missing so bits of it crumble all over the desk.

   “I apologize, but a Komodo dragon got the other half of it.”

   Bond can feel the minions watching their exchange with bated breath, Bond wondering for the first time whether this Q has a temper he should be cautious of.

   But Q just lets out a long, slow sigh, and puts the pieces back in the box. He pushes it to the side and instead makes grabby hands for Silva’s laptop. “I’ll deal with you later, 007,” he says. “There’s other work to be done.”

   Handing over the laptop case, Bond watches a tech scurry forward to grab the gun with a heated glare at Bond’s back, while another minion refills Q’s mug of tea. It’s a strange little dance, one that must be performed often judging by Q’s absolute indifference to the whole affair.

   As he settles in to watch this new Q work, Bond finds his eyes drawn to the tech who is now muttering as she looks at the remains of his gun. It doesn’t escape even himself that he managed to only salvage the piece with the moth, but he refuses to think too deeply on it; that’s a thought for a time when he doesn’t have to worry about international terrorists and M’s rat problem.

 

vii.

Skyfall is almost just as he remembers it. Granted, nearly everything is covered in cloth to protect it from age and Scotland’s unfortunate weather, but the floors creak in all the same places. Light escapes through the windows just like they had when he was a child. The smell is the same.

    _Nostalgic, 007?_ Q’s voice fuzzles in his ear, the earpiece barely picking up the signal from HQ. Bond remembers a time when all he wanted was Boothroyd to shut up, but even despite this Q being more talkative that Boothroyd ever was, he finds he doesn’t mind so much; right now, he’s actually grateful in ways he will never admit to anyone.

   “More than you would believe.” The admission surprises himself, but Bond pushes through it and continues in his quest to prepare the building, heaving slats to board up the windows.

    _I don’t remember much of my family home_ , Q hums, and Bond can hear the bitterness as Q takes a sip of his tea. _Granted, my family never had a home as extravagant as Skyfall._

   Bond barks out a laugh as he fits the last boards into the last window, having to give one corner a good kick to secure it. “Extravagant? You obviously haven’t spent very much time here.”

    _I grew up in Wales, 007. Anything is extravagant compared to that._

   Intrigued by this tidbit of information, Bond pauses. “Oh?”

   Q laughs shortly, and the clicking of a keyboard resumes.  _You’re not getting any more than that._

   “‘Shame; I’m sure you know everything about me.” He leaves the sitting room and passes Kincaid in the hall as the gamekeeper collects every loose nail he can find. Bond ducks into the next room over, and pauses, realising he’s found his mother’s library.

    _Hardly. I have only the barebones of your file available; once you were promoted to double-o status, most of the information was locked down._

   “You could have hacked it,” Bond says, running on autopilot as he carefully enters the room, a hollow feeling in the bit of his stomach as he takes in the empty shelves, the covered chairs. His mother’s favourite end table seems to have been sold with some of the other furniture, and the globe that had been on the top shelf next to the door. He hadn’t particularly cared about them, so to speak, but the absence of them does something weird to his chest.

    _I could’ve. Unfortunately, M has been keeping a rather close eye on me since my promotion; it wouldn’t do me well to have myself thrown out as quartermaster before I’ve even finished the probation period._

   Bond runs a hand over one of the dusty shelves, then shakes himself and wipes his fingers on his jacket. “I didn’t know the quartermaster _had_ a probationary period.” He pushes into the study adjacent to the library, and starts going through the desk for any extra ammunition that might have been missed.

    _We’re just like any other department, 007. Under the circumstances of my appointment, things were grantedly a little wonky._

   Bond snorts, pleased to have found half a box of buckshot in the very bottom drawer. “How old are you, Q?” he asks before he can think about it too much, deciding that’s a perfectly normal thing to ask a new associate.

    _Older than you think_ , Q says mildly, his typing stopping just long enough to take another sip of tea. _I’ll be thirty-two this coming July_.

   This pulls Bond up short; yes, he had thought him young, and did not feel remorse for being jibe about it before, but he had guessed at the very oldest, Q was mid-twenties.

   Q sounds as if he’s smiling, muttering,  _No need to sound so surprised,_ over the lip of his mug.

   “How long have you worked for Q-branch, then?” Bond joins M downstairs once again, eyeing the scarf Kincaid had gotten her; it looks suspiciously like his mother’s favourite.

    _T_ _wo years._

   Bond raises an eyebrow. “You were promoted that fast?” M throws him a suspicious glare, Kincaid looking on curiously as he loads his hunting rifle.

   Not willing to admit M’s look is moderately perturbing, Bond tells them he’s going to look for the dynamite. Q doesn’t answer until he’s outside in the quickly-darkening countryside, closing the door heavily behind him.

    _Don’t tell M I told you, but I worked with MI5 for four years before this._

   “You were a field agent?” Bond pushes into the hunting shed, but instead of finding the crates of dynamite as he’d hoped, he finds boxes of papers, and some of the books from his mother’s collection. Out of repressed curiosity, Bond opens one of the boxes and finds possibly every bit of sheet music they’d had in the house, which was, admittedly, not very much. “Oh,” he says quietly, not realising he’d said it loud enough for Q to hear.

    _Did you find the dynamite?_

    “No, not yet. Just some things from the house. Books, sheet music.”

    _Did they sell the grand piano? M mentioned they removed some of the furniture._

    “Of course they did, bloody old thing,” Bond snips, closing the box a bit harder than necessary. He kicks it aside and kneels down to the only remaining box of dynamite from the quarry.

   Then his breath leaves his chest for a moment as he realises what Q had said. He fumbles and nearly drops the box, looking up as if he’d actually be able to see Q’s face.

    _007?_

   “Q, are you—?”

    _Bond,_ Q interrupts him,  _perhaps this is a conversation for another time._

   Bond doesn’t disagree, and it takes him longer than he’d like to admit to get his bearings again.

 

vi.

Q-branch is empty when Bond finishes his briefing with the new M, and Q isn’t at his station in the middle of the room. It only forces him to pause for a moment, eyes quickly scanning the room until he finds the office tucked at the back of the room; how he’d missed it before is a mystery to him, what with the wall-length windows and the large blue door. He can’t see Q, but he would bet his considerable yearly salary that he had purposefully placed his desk in the one blind spot in the room.

   He pushes into the room without knocking, pleased to see he had been correct. Q’s desk is against the wall running away from the door, facing the wide expanse of the room but completely hidden behind the door.

   Q is slouched in the chair, feet on his desk as he nurses a nearly-empty bottle of beer, and he doesn’t look at all surprised as Bond enters. For some unreadable reason, this pleases him.

   He walks into the room and sets a half-charred, half-waterlogued stack of papers right in front of Q, hiding how pleased he truly is under a smug grin. Q frowns and puts his feet on the ground to closer inspect the papers, before he chokes out a short laugh.

   “I didn’t know you were sentimental, 007,” he chuckles as he picks up the sheet music for _The_ _Dead Moth Tango_ , rubbing the pads of his fingers over the title.

   Leaning against the nearest wall, where a thin table runs the length of it, Bond smiles thinly, and nods to the bottle in Q’s hands. “There is a time and a place, it seems.”

   “Well,” Q blinks and eyes the remains of his drink. “she always did say regret was unprofessional. I figured that included whiskey.”

   Bond looks around the room for the cameras he knows are there, finding them tucked into three of the four corners. He raises an eyebrow at Q, who puts his feet back on his desk and drains his bottle.

   “They’ve been on a loop since I was hired. I think M even knows.”

   “Does he know who you are?”

   “Unlikely. Mum always kept that close to her chest. And even if he did, he knows orphans make the best recruits.” He looks up to the ceiling as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, eyes flicking over the cracks, memorising their exact placement.

   Bond watches him for a moment, then suppresses a small smile. “Sherrinford, was it?”

   With a groan, Q sets the empty bottle on the very edge of the desk, just short of it falling off. “I never did forgive her for that. Thank god that never got around HQ, or Moneypenny would insist on calling me ‘Sherri’.”

   Q looks to him sharply when Bond laughs a real, genuine laugh, surprising the both of them. “Careful, or I might pick it up,” he warns his quartermaster, pleased to see Q’s shoulders lose some of their tension.

   “I’m surprised you didn’t know it was me from the start. Aren’t you known for your ability to read people? Don’t I have a tell?” Q jibes in retaliation, putting both feet back on the cement floor.

   “Of course, but they take years to develop. I saw you twice, and years apart; I’m afraid I never picked yours up. The late M, however, I knew hers.” Bond looks out the windows to the empty branch, but flicks his eyes back to Q. “She never had it around you.”

   Q hums, a hollow, sad-sounding thing, and looks back to the ceiling. “Can I ask what it was? I could never pin it down.”

   “‘Couldn’t read your own mother?”

   Laughing bitterly, Q adjusts his glasses. “Of course not. You knew her better than I ever did.”

   “Mm.” Bond can’t decide what kind of reaction Q wants from him, face as impassive as it has ever been; he supposes growing up with a woman like Olivia Mawdsley would do that to someone. He switches tactics, not taking his attention from Q’s pensive eyes. “You heard about Skyfall?”

   “Of course, and you did walk me through your booby-trapping it all. God, I loved that bloody place.”

   “‘Made one of us then, I suppose.” Bond sticks his hands in the pockets of his trousers as Q starts to fiddle absentmindedly with the sheet music. “‘Liked moths every since you were little’?” he mocks after a minute of silence, amused, and Q just laughs.

   “I was sure you’d caught on then. But then I suppose it has been a long time; I was, what, six?”

   “Something like that.” Bond smiles despite himself.

   Q changes the subject before he can get anything else out. “How’d you manage to get this back in one piece, but not your gun?” he asks, sounding irked, but Bond reads his tic, his tell at the corner of his mouth twitches, and his left hand tremors as if over a computer keyboard, as if over a piano.

 

v.

Bond is put on a deep-cover mission not long after the incident MI6 has dubbed The Silva Affair, so he doesn’t see Q for another three months. When he does finally make it back from his mission with the Russian Mob, with an ache in his chest for the still-missing Alec, Q-branch is dark.

   The branch had finally moved back closer to the roof of the building, though it had been completely redesigned per Q’s request. From what Bond had heard, Q had streamlined absolutely everything, and contrary to everyone’s expectations, he didn’t modernise almost anything. After The Silva Affair, there had been some lingering fear about technology, and while most had expected this new Q to be the herald of the new century, he had for the most part stuck to the Q-branches of the past. His specialty remains coding and the said twenty-first century, but instead of installing huge computer banks into the new branch, he’d moved some of the labs onto their floor, to work closer with the tech itself. Because, despite all fragile, average-nerd appearances, Q had apparently graduated with three engineering degrees.

   However, this redesign of the whole building also meant that Bond had absolutely no idea where he was going. Q-branch is no longer crammed next to Intentions, but has a floor all to itself, and Q’s office is not where Bond would have expected. Instead of in the thick of it all, or in a place of unquestionable authority, it’s tucked at the back, nearest the prototypes lab and the hub for the branch minions. Like it had been in the tunnels, it runs the length of the back wall, mostly made of windows, both inside the building and out, but with blind spots where Q can hide.

   The branch is empty when Bond gets there, reminding him it’s half three in the morning. M’s video message post-mission the night before had assured him that Q would still be at HQ, but he isn’t in his office. It takes some searching, but Bond eventually finds Q tucked away in one of the tech labs, bent over a table near a rather intimidating-looking machine with that seems to have missile-launchers attached to the side.

   Upon closer inspection, Bond decides that the object of Q’s attention looks very much like the beginnings of a lightsabre. This simple proof of Q being just as nerdy as he seems pulls a soft snort from Bond as he approaches his quartermaster.

   Q doesn’t look up as bond sets his gun (in pieces) onto the table next to him. “I would appreciate it,” he says slowly, determinedly focussed on the device in his hands. “if you started showing more respect for your equipment, 007. I do not think you realise how much time goes into making just one of these.”

   “It didn’t quite hold up to being used as a boomerang,” Bond snarks, leaning back against the table next to him and watching Q’s fingers work deftly over the device. “Perhaps your minions could spend a little more time at the drawing board for durability?”

   Q’s hands stop working, twitching as Q’s jaw clenches. “Guns are long range weapons, I might remind you. Did you really have to _throw_ it?” He looks up now, eyes sharp and dangerous behind his glasses. Perhaps Bond should be more wary of someone who could destroy his life as easily as hitting enter on a keyboard. But he isn’t, and meets Q’s gaze blandly.

   Tucking a hand in his pocket, and reaching out with the other to prod at Q’s device despite the hot glare he gets, Bond says, “Boothroyd always stayed until the god-awful hours of the morning, too. Though the late M did as well; who did you get that from?”

   Q bats away Bond’s hand and moves the tech out of his reach. “Boothroyd wasn’t my father, 007.”

   “I thought not,” Bond responds, pleased.

   Q pushes up his glasses, wary. “Did you?”

   “Of course. That man hated the piano.”

   Despite himself, Q laughs, and Bond decides he quite likes that laugh. “‘Hated insects too. ‘Hated me for always having them around the house; have I ever mentioned the cockroach incident?”

   Bond shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, you remain resolutely private about your past; while I’ve been inclined to respect that until now, this story might earn a bit of prodding.”

   Smiling, just a bit, Q pulls the device back towards himself. “Perhaps another time, Bond. If there’s nothing else, I should get back to this; M is expecting progress by the end of the week.”

   “No, there’s nothing else.” Bond hesitates before leaving though, turning something over in his pocket a few times before pulling it out. A rock no bigger than his palm, tucked inside a small glass box.

   He sets it next to the remains of his gun, Q laying down his tools to inspect the delicate fossil of a moth. “Bond—”

   “ _Heliophobus reticulata_ ,” he interrupts. “Extinct in Britain, I hear. ‘Thought you might enjoy it.” Bond pushes off the table before Q can respond, making his escape while he can keep his dignity intact.

 

iv.

“I’m not a babysitter, M.”

   M isn’t amused, and isn’t swayed. He pushes the folder closer to Bond across the desk, again, but Bond still doesn’t take it. “Neither of us are expecting you to be, 007,” he sighs, and settles back into his chair. Bond can feel Q’s glare, but doesn’t give his quartermaster the satisfaction of looking at him.

   “I work better alone.”

   “I don’t deny that, but we need him on this one.”

   “And I have done fieldwork before, Bond,” Q says evenly, but his fingers crumple the folder in his hands a little. “I’m not a nuisance.”

   Normally, Bond would be pleased to get anything out of Q about his past, but right now, knowing more about Q will only compromise him further; Bond had told himself it wouldn’t get to the point where working with Q would be dangerous, but here he is. _Caring_ about him.

   Disgusted with himself, Bond turns it into disdain at having to work in the field with Q. “Can’t you walk me through whatever tech-tripe that must be done?”

   “No, the mark is expecting me there,” Q bites out. “I expect you in Q-branch at 0500 sharp for your equipment.” With that, he leaves, and though he doesn’t slam the door, the way it snaps closed gets his point across just fine.

   M is watching Bond with a level of pity Bond does not think the situation warrants. “007, I expect a level of professionalism, even from the 00’s, and even from you.”

   “I don’t want to have to watch out for him,” Bond tries to reason, but M just gets to his feet.

   “You’re fooling no one, Bond. Least of all me, or your quartermaster. Your plane leaves at 0800, and I will not tolerate you compromising this mission for anything personal you may have with Q.”

   Bond gets the feeling M and he are talking about entirely different things.

 

The hardest part about working in the field with Q is that it isn’t hard at all. Q is deadly efficient, is even less squeamish than Boothroyd had been, and plays his cover story bloody brilliantly. There’s an air of coolness between them that Bond knows is entirely his own fault, but Q doesn’t let it get in the way of their objectives. Every action Q performs seems to be to remind Bond that he doesn’t have that level of rectitude.

   And maybe Bond feels a little guilty, especially when Q proves himself time and again that he’s deadly both in a fist-fight and on his laptop. Bond doesn’t want to know if he himself comes out of these fights worse because Q is better in combat than him, or if it’s because he’s too busy watching out for Q to properly take care of himself.

   Q’s cover is a freelance hacker looking for a high-paying job, their mark having hired him to get inside a housing corporation's database. Of course, because fate hates Bond like he’d murdered its parents, the mark flies them out to Vegas, where the corporation’s headquarters are located. MI6 sets them up in a relatively nice hotel, nothing that would be out of place for a freelance hacker.

   Bond may be displeased with the circumstances, but because they share a suite, Bond gets to learn all sorts of Q’s habits. Like that he showers before bed and not in the morning, or that he wets his toothbrush before putting on the paste. That he doesn’t own a hairbrush. That despite being a mathematical genius, Q can’t gamble to save his life.

   With his cover as Q’s patsy, Bond goes downstairs to scout out the casino where they’re meeting their mark before Q is even done getting dressed. This decision has nothing to do with the fact he hasn’t yet seen Q in a suit, and having a job to focus on when he finally does will keep his mind focussed on the task at hand. Absolutely nothing to do with Q in a waistcoat. None.

   Bond waits at the bar for him, keeping a sharp eye out for either their mark, or a tail that might’ve followed them. He can almost back-burner this task, having done it for so many years, but he doesn’t hold Q’s life quite as lightly as his own; he’ll be damned if Q is hurt because he slipped up.

   Which, judging from how Q fared taking down the tail they’d picked up in the airport, is something he really doesn’t have to worry about, but it does keep things in perspective; Bond can’t be nearly as reckless with this job as he normally would be.

   Bond is checking his watch when Q finally comes down the short flight of stairs into the casino, and while he doesn’t doubletake his quartermaster, it’s a near thing.

   Q spots him easily and quickly makes his way over, and as he gets closer, Bond realises just how uncomfortable and rumpled he looks. “You all make it look so easy,” Q complains quietly as he gets to the bar, tugging at his collar.

   “What’s that?” Bond asks, tone light.

   “ _Bowties_ ,” he hisses, though the knot looks pristine as anything to Bond.

   “They aren’t much different from normal ties, Q.”

   Q snorts, but accepts the drink Bond hands him. He tastes it, and frowns, swirling it around in the glass a bit. “Ah. This is quite infamous from your Le Chiffre days. ‘Found a name for it yet?”

   Hiding how pleased he is that Q even knows about his first mission, and the drink he’d invented, Bond takes a sip of his own and scans the room again. “I was thinking Sherrinford,” he starts, just to see Q splutter on his drink. “but I think Dead Moth works much better, don’t you?”

   Sopping up the spilled alcohol, Q glares at him. “This is hardly the time or the place, Bond. Or did you forget we’re wired?”

   “How could I?” Spotting their target, Bond straightens and drains his glass. “Well, come along then, Sherri. I think we’ve got work to do.”

 

iii.

Bond chalks it up to the fact their last joint mission went so well that not a year later, M pairs them up again, this time for a mostly legitimate job for the United Nations. Q is just a little bit bitter that Bond’s job this time _i_ _s_ to protect him, despite knowing that any department head would need a bodyguard on a job outside of their jurisdiction.

   Trusting his quartermaster on a different level than he had before the Vegas job, Bond is mostly amused at Q’s mumbled rantings as he tries to fix his tie in the mirror. Bond watches him struggle for a good five minutes before taking pity and walking forward with a laughed, “Let me.”

   Q turns to let him mess with his tie, resigned. “I hate fieldwork,” he grumbles, watching Bond deftly reknot his dark red tie.

   “You were so excited last time,” Bond points out, eyeing a small stain near the bottom of the tie.

   “‘Last time’ ended with us both getting shot, and you throwing an old lady’s corpse at me, Bond.”

   “You were in the way.”

   Q scoffs, looking out the window at the warm skyline of Vienna as the sun sets, but he doesn’t look pleased by the exquisite sight. Bond inspects the tie closer, and decides he won’t let Q out in public with it — it isn’t even _silk_.

   “Wait here,” he tells Q and goes the armoire, Q ignoring him and tagging along anyway.

   “What are you doing?”

   “Finding you a better tie.”

   Q looks down at his tie, frowning. “It’s a nice tie; Moneypenny said so.”

   “Moneypenny probably ‘said so’ while laughing behind your back.” Bond pulls a plain navy blue tie out of his collection, and compares it to the shade of Q’s eyes, deciding that they complimented wonderfully. “Here.”

   With a roll of his eyes, Q undoes the red tie to let Bond affix the blue one instead. “I liked the red one,” he complains halfheartedly. “Thank you for helping me.”

   “Don’t you wear ties to work often enough?”

   Q gives a shrug. “You do fancier knots than I do.” He steps away from Bond once he’s finished to inspect the handiwork, and frowns at the small, gold tiepin just over his heart. “What’s this?” He runs a thumb over the moth inlaid in the pin with silver.

   Resisting the urge to clear his throat, Bond moves back to the mirror to slip into his dove-grey jacket. “Your tie kept slapping me in the face on the train ‘last time’. I thought I would remedy this.”

   Q is quiet for a moment, long enough that Bond has to turn back to him to make sure he hasn’t had a heart attack or something equally as worrying. His quartermaster is staring at the pin, expression blank. “Does M know just how sentimental you are?” he eventually asks, voice quiet.

   In a rare moment of sincerity, Bond responds, “That information is privy only to you.”

 

ii.

 _Why did you quit piano?_ Q asks, voice slightly static-y over the radio; Bond chalks it up to the noise of the chopper as they speed into the heart of the Alps, and the flurries building into a storm just outside the helicopter.

   It’s an innocent enough question, but the breathless way in which Q asks twists knots into Bond’s stomach. “Dead Moth Tango,” Bond answers truthfully, checking the clip in his PPK.

   Q gives a wet, strained cough. _I can see why. That piece is the worst thing I’ve ever had to play_. Q seems to shift, rustling his clothes and letting out a small pained sound. It’s all Bond can do not to break the gun in his hands.

   “Truth is, I only started playing because my mother asked me too. That piece was just the last straw.”

    _’Couldn’t ever get it?_

   “I gave up soon after you schooled me with _Twinkle Twinkle_.” Bond pushes himself up to his feet and carefully makes his way to the cockpit, looking out the front window. It’s hard to see anything with the rising blizzard, but there’s a grey speck in the side of the mountain, and if Bond’s years of service have taught him anything, of course that’s where they’d taken Q. In the middle of bloody nowhere. “Q, do you know where they’re keeping you?”

    _Basement, I think. Please tell me you have an extra jacket._

   Actually, Bond hadn’t thought of that, but a quick look around the helicopter bay finds a black parka tucked under one of the benches. “We’ve got one. Medical is five minutes behind us, so we’re going to have to get you to the roof first.”

    _I can walk,_ Q tries to assure him, but the words just ink worry deeper into Bond’s skin.

   “What’s your status?”

   Q is quiet for a long moment, even his breathing falling silent. But then it comes back, a bit stronger than before. _Broken ribs, three I think. Two broken fingers. Sprained wrist._ He rustles again. _And possibly a concussion_. His voice is controlled, impassive, collected, and Bond doesn’t want to admit that it’s the only reason he isn’t yelling at the pilot to go faster.

   “So much for having field experience,” Bond forces out after a moment, sitting back down so he doesn’t start trying to pace.

    _Hey, they drugged me. Bloody amateurs, though; they didn’t even check me for weapons. Thank god they didn’t break the radio._

   Without that radio, and the tracker inside it, they probably wouldn’t have found Q fast enough, if at all; Bond violently pushes that thought to the back of his mind. “What weapons do you have?”

    _Hunting knife, and a concealed revolver. Unfortunately, I can’t reach either of them at the moment_. This time, Q’s movement is accompanied by the sound of metal scraping against metal, almost as if—

   Bond doesn’t let himself think about it. “Q, have they got you in—”

    _Yes, they do, and no, it is not pleasant, so I would appreciate it if you got here soon._ There’s the smallest of wavers in his voice, betraying the lie in his at-ease tone.

   Bond doesn’t answer, getting back up to check with the pilot. The grey speck is now definitely a coherent shape, and is that...? “Q, are you in a castle?”

    _Gehring Castle, I believe_ , he says in a flawless German accent. _My captors have no imagination. I believe I am in the dungeon, actually._

   “That would explain the chains,” Bond mutters to himself, giving the pilot a pat on the shoulder in thanks before he ducking back into the loading bay. “I’d say we’re about ten minutes out. Do you know how many men are there?”

    _At least ten, and one woman. Some of them left earlier, but I’m not sure how many. They’re staying in the East Wing, if my sense of direction is correct, and it usually is. Again, bloody amateurs, so I believe if you avoid them, you’ll avoid all confrontation. I haven’t noticed any guards._

   “That’s convenient,” he says, to mask his want to blow the whole thing to kingdom come as soon as Q is clear. “Do you know the layout of the castle at all?”

   Q inhales to respond, but devolves into weak, wet coughs. Bond clenches his teeth and waits for it to pass, unwilling to show just how deep his concern runs. _N-No, they had me blindfolded when they brought me in,_ Q says apologetically. _I’m afraid I won’t be of much use in this rescue._

   “We can hardly blame you for that.” Bond checks his gun again just for something to do, his fingers itching to be in action. “I’m sure your minions will be sending floorplans soon.”

   Q chokes out a laugh, sounding a bit closer to himself. _My minions?_

   “Everyone at MI6 calls them that, Q. I believe they coined themselves, in fact.” As if on cue, the tablet Q-branch had sent with him dings with a message. He pulls up the floor plans for Gehring Castle and starts mapping out the best route to the ‘dungeon’. “Q, you wouldn’t happen to know how to get to the basement, would you?”

   With a strained chuckle, Q mutters _Minions my ass,_ to himself before answering,  _They took me through the servants’ cupboard right next to the front door. If you can get there, you won’t miss it._

   Bond grunts his acknowledgement and plans his route from there. Q is quiet from then, but his breath is a comforting presence in Bond’s ear, the only sign he’s still waiting for him.

    _Bond_ , Q says quietly after a minute. _You still haven’t told me my mother’s tell._

   “After you’ve been through medical, Q; I’d hate to hurt your head more than it already is.”

   Q snorts out a laugh.

 

Q’s minions are flocked around his private room in Medical when Bond finally makes it down there, having finished the mission report early at M’s insistence.

   The man in question is trying his best to calm the tittering and gossiping of the Q-branch techs with little success; even the assurance that Q would be back to work in a spare few weeks doesn’t calm them. Bond almost thinks they’re distracted enough for him to sneak past to Q’s room, but as soon as one of the older techs (Charlie, Bond thinks) sees him, he’s swarmed.

   M stands off to the side, in as much resigned shock as Bond seems to be, watching each of the Q-branch members embrace Bond in thanks.

   Then they’re gone and moving as one down the hall towards the elevator, apparently contented by Bond’s presence.

   M gives him a moment to collect himself before approaching, looking hassled. “They were never like this with Boothroyd; I don’t know how Q does it.”

   “I think he buys their affection with espresso and sweets,” Bond responds, still running a bit on autopilot.

   M shrugs in forced apathy, before fixing his expression back into something far more professional. “I want to congratulate you on your mission, 007. No one expected to get Q back quite so fast.”

   The compliment immediately has Bond on high alert, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Thank you, sir.”

   After letting his gaze read everything he possibly can from Bond’s face, M sighs and stops beating around the bush. “Bond, and I’m asking you this strictly unofficially, do we need to discuss Q?”

   Had he been anything but a spy, Bond would give himself a pat on the pack for the prediction. “What do you mean?”

   “Don’t play coy with me, Bond; you know what I mean. I just want to know if I need to be concerned.”

   Normally, Bond works through every possible conversation in any given situation before the situation even arises, but he hadn’t expected to be asked about Q. About this. He has no easy lie waiting on the back of his tongue, so he tells M the truth: “Q and I have a history from before MI6. I may have let that affect my mission, but I think it was for the best, in this case.”

   M raises his eyebrow, not use to a completely honest Bond. “Will this happen again?”

   “No, sir.”

   He watches Bond closely for a moment, before giving a satisfied nod. “I’m going to trust your judgement, Bond, something I never thought I’d do. Don’t ruin that trust.” He starts for the elevator without waiting for a response, giving the whole evening an even more surreal feeling. Pausing at the elevator, M turns on heel to face Bond. “Don’t bother filling out a conflict of interests form; I trust Q enough to think you won’t need one.”

   Bond blinks and watches M disappear into the elevator. Not sure what to do with himself in the wake of that sort of conversation, Bond just stands there in the middle of the hall for a good minute before the door to Q’s room opens and a nurse steps out.

   The nurse stops in surprise, then gives a small smile. “Ah, 007,” he says. “I was just coming to tell you Q requested you earlier, but I’m afraid he’s asleep now. The non-emergency staff was just about to head home, but I can give you five minutes, if you like.”

   It takes Bond a moment to respond, wondering if he’ll wake up any moment; had M told them something? What could M have told them?

   He gives himself a good shake and smiles thinly. “I’m just here to drop something off; five minutes is fine.”

   The nurse unlocks the door for him, pushing it open. “I have to go talk to night shift, so just make sure to close the door on your way out. Goodnight, 007.”

   “Goodnight.”

   The nurse leaves him be, entering a door further down the hallway. Bond waits until he has control over his expression again to enter the room, closing the door softly behind himself.

   Q is indeed asleep in the bed tucked into the corner, only hooked up to a few machines, but he’s sporting quite a few visible bandages.

   Bond carefully makes his way over to the bed, setting the small mason jar he’d brought with him on the bedside table. Q twitches in his sleep, almost as if sensing his presence, but he falls still again, and Bond feels stupid. He’d spent a good twenty minutes catching the moth that now calls the mason jar its home, and he realizes he doesn’t even know how to keep it alive until Q wakes up.

   Bond reasons with himself that Q will see it in the morning, and decide to keep it or release it, and it really isn’t any of his business.

   Sighing through his nose, Bond watches Q for another moment, then turns away and slips from the room as if he hadn’t been there at all.

 

i.

The moth dies before Q is released from medical; considering the average lifespan of moths, no one is really surprised. Q will tell Bond later that he mounted her on a small plaque, that he named her Lovelace.

   But now, now Bond stands too close to Q, watching his quartermaster’s lips. Now, Q is watching him right back, making no move to initiate. He just watches him, ignores the minions that have full view of his office. Yes, Bond is close, too close, so close they share each other’s breath, the intimacy of it all making Bond’s knees just a tad weak.

   Minions start to gather outside the office, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but neither of them pay the techs any mind.

   Q will tell him later that he has two cats, that Mrs. Hopper is a sweetheart, but James IV bites. That his mother always hated it when he’d name the kittens after the boy he had met only once.

  Later, much later, Bond will tell him he quit piano because a scrap of a six year-old could best him without even trying. That he heard Q play _Dead Moth Tango_ that one night.

  But now, now they breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Some story notes:  
> 1) I’m rather enamoured by the idea of Q being the late M’s son; I read a fic about it once and it hasn’t left my head. I’m definitely playing around with that in this, though not quite the extent I had originally planned.  
> 2) I aged Q up by two years because the twelve year gap was bothering me; ten is much cleaner.  
> 3) I’m taking a lot of liberties with the Bond verse in this. A lot. Much of this is because I don’t actually know canon Bond’s past or how people fit into it, but I’d probably have wanted to fuck around with it anyway. He doesn’t lose his parents until he’s older, though M still picked him up pretty young for MI6, having known his family for years.  
> 4) I'm sorry I'm using the damaged equipment trope; it's one of my favourite tropes, for which I will not apologize.  
> 5) I had fun naming Lovelace and Mrs. Hopper. I'm positive Q would the kind of nerd to name his pets after his heroes. So, of course this includes James.
> 
> ~Brink


End file.
